


they're just old light

by Questioning (orphan_account)



Series: a little peace and quiet [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Fluff, Gen, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Stargazing, could be romantic i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:41:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25876852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Questioning
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley beneath the stars.or; a short continuation of a much longer fic, featuring softness and stargazng.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: a little peace and quiet [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1865809
Kudos: 17





	they're just old light

**Author's Note:**

> title from Regina Spektor's Samson, because it reminds me of them. 
> 
> again, thank you to my beta reader @shinyhappygoth on tumblr, who was incredibly helpful.
> 
> another shoutout to butter! i love you, dearest.
> 
> this was meant to be all one fic, but i removed it to for easier reading - didn't quite fit with the theme.

Angels were not made for sleeping. Neither were demons, for that matter, but Crowley had gotten into the habit rather a long time ago and it was hard to break now. But Aziraphale—it was still tossing and turning for him, all restless movement and ill-adjusted attempts. It was easier to sleep with the comforting warmth of Crowley around him, but sometimes even that couldn’t help.

It was nights like that Crowley tugged him out of bed, red hair messy and glasses forgotten at the late hour, an uncontrollable excitement running through him as he dragged him along, laughing at the weak protests coming from Aziraphale. Any other time it would have seemed odd, but somehow it was fitting now, when it felt strange even for ethereal beings to be out. 

He always led Aziraphale to the same place, dragging him out of the comforting warmth into a freezing night, wild joy fading to a vaguely malicious look that Aziraphale knew was a facade. 

The place was this: a grassy field, damp from the rain that evening and lit only dimly. If they were mortal Aziraphale would have fussed about catching colds, and even now Crowley rolled his eyes at his worry, batting away his attempts at conjuring a nice fluffy jumper. (Not that he was going to complain about how nice his angel looked like that.) 

It felt like an eternity they lay there, hands twined together and breaths appearing as clouds in the cool air. Not really, of course—they both knew what eternity was, had lived it. They would keep on living it too, watching endless things change over and over. Humans were inventive like that, clever things that named the constellations and thought up endless stories about them. They made stories about everything: that mint plants were made of blood, that the world had meaning. 

A cloudless night for once, though if you looked closely there was promise of grey skies in the morning. But for now it was curiously bright, moon so new that even the stars outshone it, gathered thick and clear in the night sky. There was the feeling of fresh grass beneath their heads, and the kind of tired contentment that sank deep into your bones. 

“I made the stars, you know.” He turned to face him, yellow eyes bright in the moonlight. “My masterpiece—bright and burning and beautiful.” He huffed a laugh, “It’s ironic, isn’t it? I finally managed the bright and burning parts for myself.” 

“Oh, you always had the beautiful part down,” Aziraphale joked, light tone failing him entirely too quickly. “It’s... er, that is to say, that they really are amazing, dear. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well. Not your fault,” he mumbled, fingers tightening around the angel’s pudgy hands, still gazing skyward. “I miss it, sometimes.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, the words sounding fragile and far too hollow in the light of the wide sky. 

“It’s done now.” Crowley’s fingers twitched towards his face like he was wishing for sunglasses, however impractical they might be. It was just them, really, nothing between them to stop them rolling over to face each other, tangled limbs and quiet laughter. “Did you ever make anything for Her?”

“I... no. I was a bit young for that—it was all finished by the time I was made. I got to watch it all, though, after. Same as you, of course.” 

“She didn’t make everything, y’know. Angels did some, humans did the rest.” 

“Yes, but. She kind of did, isn’t that point? Everything that exists is an extension of Her holy will. The grass, the birds, everything down to the smallest bacterium. It’s all rather beautiful, really.”

“What, even this?” Crowley wrinkled his nose in disbelief, drawing out the a to a disproportionate length. He slouched even on his side, it seemed, even if he had to break all of those pesky laws of physics to do it. 

“All love is holy, dear,” and there was a pompous edge to his voice, but the gentle way he reached out for Crowley attested to the sincerity of his words. “Even if it’s people like us. Even if Heaven doesn’t think so.” His voice dropped lower at the end, eyes still fixed on Crowley’s. 

It was an odd way to fall asleep, he supposed. But it was better than nothing.


End file.
